We smiled for him the day he was wed.
For him, and him alone. Not for the fair Guinevere, whose small deft hand he gripped. Not for the strangers that gathered round. Not for Merlin or his men.
We smiled for Arthur and prayed we didn't crack his stone-faced facade with our mourning. His walls of pain and blood offered little resistance, and our smiles were gentler sobs.
There were tears in his eyes as he kissed her, a shake to his hand as he took hers, and a dead man in his heart as he threw his lover's ashes to a strong east wind.
But Galahad and I looked on and smiled, and I gripped his hand tightly between our cloaks, where no other could see.
It could have been me, it could have been him.
But it was Lancelot that was given the warrior's death, him that died with a Saxon's sword in his belly and a smile on his face.
We looked on and smiled at this grey wedding, and did not think of how our brother had died for the woman who smiled into Arthur's dead eyes, the woman he'd believed brave Artorius had loved more than he.
So we smiled, and mourned, and by the time we left the bluff that day, Galahad bled from the cuts that my grip had bestowed upon his hand.
And he smiled through the pain, and I through mine. But Arthur, brave Arthur, would never grin again.